rasam

The real will notice the details, while the weak will get lost in a room with shackles and tombs. Drown where no other soul will hear their cries. Drown where doom is in full gloom.

I didn’t write the following, but it always spoke to me.

“Dogs”

“you gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need. you gotta sleep on your toes, and when you’re on the street, you gotta be able to pick out the easy meat with your eyes closed. and then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight, you gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking. and after a while, you can work on points for style. like the club tie, and the firm handshake, a certain look in the eye and an easy smile. you have to be trusted by the people that you lie to, so that when they turn their backs on you, you’ll get the chance to put the knife in. you gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder. you know it’s going to get harder, and harder, and harder as you get older. and in the end you’ll pack up and fly down south, hide your head in the sand, just another sad old man, all alone and dying of cancer. and when you loose control, you’ll reap the harvest you have sown. and as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone. and it’s too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around. so have a good drown, as you go down, all alone, dragged down by the stone. I gotta admit that I’m a little bit confused. sometimes it seems to me as if i’m just being used. gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise. if i don’t stand my own ground, how can i find my way out of this maze? deaf, dumb, and blind, you just keep on pretending that everyone’s expendable and no-one has a real friend. and it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner and everything’s done under the sun, and you believe at heart, everyone’s a killer. who was born in a house full of pain. who was trained not to spit in the fan. who was told what to do by the man. who was broken by trained personnel. who was fitted with collar and chain. who was given a pat on the back. who was breaking away from the pack. who was only a stranger at home. who was ground down in the end. who was found dead on the phone. who was dragged down by the stone.”

-RW

It’s been very difficult. From changing meds, figuring out my life, planting tomatoes, planning my future, deciding on a surgery, getting disappointed, analyzing my relationships even further, getting even more disappointed, doing the bungee jump thingE at Wonderland, driving to Ottawa to vote for the Iranian Presidential Election, cleaning up the house, waiting at the airport, picking up loved ones, getting to the OR, having a political/spiritual/religious conversation/argument with my surgeon, one of the nurses, and the anaesthesiologist, to waking up in pain, getting morphine injected into me, thrice, and then trying to have a decent conversation with my parents whom were still very much jetlagged from their trip across the planet.

The “political/spiritual/religious conversation/argument” went like this:

I asked the anaesthesiologist to please wait for me to do my prayers before putting me to sleep. I then corrected myself, just in case, and reminded him that by "putting me to sleep" I actually meant making me sleep ONLY for the duration of the surgery, and not longer. He smiled, so did the nurses. I was a bit nervous, but I’m a fairly positive person. I smiled back, thinking happy thoughts, being positive. My surgeon boasted that his anaesthesiologist is nothing compared to the one for my open discectomy 4 years ago at a competing hospital. I took his word for it. Dr. Ali was his name. My surgeon was a bit surprised about me praying pretty much right before him cutting me up, he knew that I’m not really religious. I explained to him that I’m not the best Muslim around. I told him how much I like pepperoni pizza and I own a dog! Considering that he knew where I was from, he realized what I meant by that statement (in Islam, dogs aren’t well liked, mostly cause they lick themselves, at least that’s what I learned at school) for which he replied that neither is he, but we settled that a higher power exists. However, my surgeon was a bit taken by the dog statement and Islam, he glanced over at Dr. Ali to which my anaesthesiologist replied that it was a misconception.

At that point, I fought a very difficult battle between my mind and the beast inside me that wanted to take up valuable OR time in order to prove a point. My mind won. Which was smart. Why would I wanna argue with a man who is about to put me to sleep for an hour, while I’m laying on a bed, naked, right in front of him? Good job mind. (FYI: I just googled, and I was right. Dogs aren’t well liked at all, but worry not, he had the last laugh, read on).

After I did my prayers, which usually lasts maybe a minute at best, my anaesthesiologist made me feel like shit about the whole suppressing my inner desire to argue with him. It went like this: I did my prayers and I told him that I’m good to go. As he was putting me to sleep, he said: "you just said you aren’t religious, yet you asked me to wait for you to finish your prayers". He was right, but I couldn’t let him know that. I needed to at least justify the fact that I lived in an Islamic Republic for 15 years with a half-smart half-bullshit comment. As I was fighting off the anxiety, and the sleeping potion greeting my organs, I tried to think of a comment, but before I got anywhere, the nurse put a mask on my face, and asked me to just breath, "this is pure oxygen" she said. I was a bit panicking now, wanting to get it off my chest. He can’t possibly win this, I said to myself. I can’t be proven a hypocrite. I got a bit pissed, which was funny cause I actually heard my anger. The "beep" "beep" from the monitoring machine was always there in the background, singing a repetitive tune, which I think was 55bpm, but when I got pissed, I heard it going up to maybe 65, and then it got back to 55ish, and then it was just black. He won.

When I woke up, my face was in pain, and I was feeling really tired. Really spent. The nurse asked how I was feeling, and I told her my throat was really sour, and my face was hurting. I said my pain is around 7 out of 10. She said she had given me some morphine, and I should be feeling better soon. I asked how much, which was funny, cause I was trying to remember how much morphine is usually administered to patients, but my mind was simply blank. She asked me to sit a bit straighter, and I did. I remember being extra polite, replying with "yes ma’am", "no ma’am". I think it made everyone uncomfortable. They then took me to my folks, which was interesting cause they both looked a bit nervous. Later one they told me that my surgery took more than 90 minutes, which was a good 40 minutes longer than the initial estimate. After 15 minutes or so, the pain started to kick in again, and this time my surgeon also recommended another shot of morphine for me, and I was like yayyy! I’ve never had morphine before, so you know, I was excited. My surgeon was fairly confident about the results and that made everyone a bit easier and lighter.

Hours later I remember getting to the car, and seeing myself in the mirror, I looked like hell. It was horrible. I look much better now, but holly shit, I looked like someone beat the shit out of me.

These were taken 2 days after the surgery. My eyes are OPEN in these picture.

My are are freaking OPEN!!!!!!!!!!!!! Did I mention that? I felt like Rocky!

(The surgery was on the 18th of June, I started writing this about a week later. Finished it on the 30th of June.)

I don’t have a new picture, and too lazy to take one, but it pretty much looks normal again. Which is good =). And this was a lovely day at the beach.

Words,

They all stare at me, mockingly,

I look down, afraid, ashamed.

I feel them closing in, with spears, razor sharp, not a single tear.

I don’t dare, never look up again, just follow my feet, walk slowly, maybe they won’t see me. Maybe I disappear.

I hear their sight, piercing into my skin, the way they look, not a blink. And all I do is walk, step by step.

I thought about hiding, crawling perhaps, my pride shook it out of me, not a chance he said.

I’m shallower than the ocean, living in a room, with empty promises, broken appointments, and no dreams. None. Just a bus, a train, a bicycle that takes me from the moon, and hands me to the sun. Like a bastard child, unwanted I feel.

Tired of thoughts, tired of days, tired of nights. A cycle with no change, just minor tweaks. They never disappear.

And now, I don’t even sleep, not a blink, insomnia is all I see. A dark room with blinds, all shut, cars, flashing lights, so masterfully dance around my line of defense, and remind me that I’m still awake. I fight back, close my eyes, hide under my pillow, doesn’t help. Difficult when you have to choose, decide, to sleep or breath.

Digital clock, with green letters, so bright, looks stuck. Time is no longer moving, just more of the same. Stuck. I open my eyes a bit wider, need to know the time, need to know. Feels dark, feels early, it is early.

And now, the words again, attack, come at me at full speed. And they now have me again, at their mercy, a slave. Memories, all old, all dated and old. All irrelevant. I know I won’t be sleeping anymore, but I try to lie. Trick myself, deep down, inside of my outer shell, inside the hype, inside the mind, the heart, the organs, the veins, the blood, inside of my DNA, I know better. The memories are fake, even if they aren’t, I don’t want them. Maybe they aren’t fake. But I still don’t want them. Take them from me. But words never listen. They never really talk. They just attack, no questions asked.

I try to be clever, but I don’t need to be. I feel guilty. Again, moments, like a movie, but a stupid movie, just come and hide behind my eyelids. A flashback, but no way to ignore it. I close my eyes, but the images just get brighter. Why do I care? I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.

And they all still stare. Maybe they want to tell me something, but I can’t risk it. I won’t look up, maybe I’m invisible, maybe all this is a dream.

I stop lying to myself; dreams refuse to allow empty shells like me into their worlds. Even the nightmares. Ohh, the fucking nightmares. They think they’re so much better than me. I don’t want them. I don’t need them. Any of them. Jesus wants to save me, he wants me to find him. And so does the Mormons. I mocked them. Especially the Mormons. They read to me, prayed for me. I smiled.

I know this isn’t right, but I can hear my bed, and my desk. Whispering something, perhaps it’s just me. Or perhaps not. I know this can’t be good. I have to ignore them. And now the chair. I ignore them all. The dog knows that I’m awake now. Objects don’t usually whisper, so neither should mine. I feel the carpet underneath my feet. My skin, feels it. The carpet greets me with warmth. It’s been a while, it feels foreign. Alien, but friendly.

How did I get here? Who walked me into the kitchen? But I’m not hungry. Why don’t you listen to me? They never listen. Nobody ever does. But everyone always asks.

I told myself, that it’s the matter of principal.

I felt bad for him. For both of them. But I really shouldn’t.

Maybe I’m a potato. So unattached. Why do I need to be like the norm. Why does everyone want a different version of me? Why can’t I just be me. But who exactly am I?

One day I will tell them all. Face to face.

Eggs perhaps? Or frozen pizza? All the same. I need to open the mail.

My days never start anymore, they just continue. One after the other. They come with a grin, and they never leave.